


Too Late

by pterodactyldrops



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Caught in the Act, Dragon Age Kink Meme, F/M, Jealousy, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, One-Sided Relationship, Past Relationship(s), War Table Sex, not a threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 20:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pterodactyldrops/pseuds/pterodactyldrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen wonders if she'd fold herself in to his waiting arms just as easily.</p><p> </p><p>Written for the Kmeme prompt: I had an idea of an Inquisitor that had either broken up with Cullen, or the two of them never started a relationship, getting with Samson. Specifically, having Cullen walk in on them in the war room with Samson bending Inq over the war table. Cullen is very unhappy with this development.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Late

**Author's Note:**

> Props to anyone actually able to break up with Cullen after Adamant and upload the heartache onto youtube.

_“There’s always something more, isn’t there?”_  
  
The Inquisitor nods to her advisers, a dismissal on her face if not on her lips. She’s not hearing their words anymore. Her singular attention is focused on the commander of Corypheus’s army, on the man standing next to Cullen, on  _Samson_.  
  
Her face is a mask of intensities, a study in severity, and Cullen is loath to tear his gaze from her even for a moment.  
  
There is a fire in her clear eyes. It’s the same focus—the same ferocity—that Cullen has seen in her soul time and time again. He saw it when she strolled out of the Fade only to lecture the Wardens on their follies. He saw it when she stood in front of the most powerful rulers of Orlais, chin high and proud as she damned them for their games. He’d seen it even when she was half-frozen and near death, when he had clung to her like a drowning man as he carried her body away from the ruins of Haven.  
  
Cullen is sure in that moment, staring at the Inquisitor across the war table, that Samson will pay. Whatever promises Samson makes to the Inquisition, whatever excuses he has fed to the Templars, whatever lies he tells to himself so that he can sleep at night, the Inquisitor will see through them all.   
  
Samson will not escape.  
  
The Inquisitor is priest, judge, and executioner, and her brand of justice is swift and precise. She has beheaded men and women for lesser offenses. She has made traitors Tranquil. She must do the same for Samson. Cullen is sure that she  _will_ do the same.   
  
She instructs Samson to stay behind as Josephine and Leliana file out. Cullen should follow too, but he hesitates at the door. Months ago, the Inquisitor would have lingered behind with him. She would have walked with him. They would have talked. Laughed. Touched.  
  
Today, the Inquisitor ignores him, and he closes the heavy oak door behind him.   
  
_“I barely found time to get away before. This war won’t last forever. When it started I hadn’t considered much beyond our survival. Things are different now.”_  
  
He is almost to Josephine’s offices when he hears the sound. It’s faint, but his ears are always primed for trouble, even in Skyhold. It’s a strangled gasp. A choking sound. A thirst for air.   
  
Cullen reaches for his sword, hand flexing on the hilt.   
  
The tokens that had been carefully placed, tracking the Inquisition’s progress these past months, are scattered around her body. The precious maps of Ferelden and Orlais crinkle and tear underneath her. She throws out an arm to brace herself, and in doing so knocks over a pile of reports that Cullen had carefully curated for her review. The notes litter the floor.   
Cullen doesn't care. 

He wishes he had not come back, but more than that, Cullen wishes he had never left her alone.

 _“I find myself wondering what will happen after. When this is over. I won’t want to move on. Not from you.”_  
  
She kicks her legs, desperate to push her trousers further out the way. They tangle around her ankles, caught on her boots, but she is in too much of a hurry to be fully free of them. She spreads her constrained legs as far apart as she can, all muscled thighs, all long and lean, and Cullen can see sweat, moisture, and pink that before he he had only imagined.  
  
Samson’s body—red scars where Cullen’s have faded to white, hard lines where Cullen has grown soft from months behind a desk, dark where Cullen is golden—has melded in to hers. Into his Inquisitor’s body.  
  
Samson’s dirty nails dig in to her hips, leaving angry red half-moons. His body towers over hers and she is shivering. She presses in to the war table, fingers curled around the edge so tightly that her joints turn white. But even as she presses in to the war table, she pushes her hips outwards, upwards, towards, waiting and wanting and  _needing_.   
  
Needing in a way that she never needed him.   
  
Samson thrusts in to the Inquisitor. She is bent over, Samson is mounting her, claiming her,  _fucking_  her. They both moan in unison and Cullen's stomach twists painfully. They sound relieved, like they had both been running towards this moment and they are glad it’s finally arrived.  
  
Her face is set in grim satisfaction. Her smirk is a pleased one. Samson’s thrusts are hard, unforgiving, and with each one she lets out a strangle gasp. With every soft, wet, open mouthed kiss he places on her neck, her eyes flutter shut.   
  
“Knight-Captain Cullen,” Samson greets.  
  
_“I’d rather we were friends. I should have said something before.”_  
  
Cullen’s hand is no longer on the hilt of his sword. He stares at them. He wants to run. He wants to look away. But he  _can’t_. His eyes are drawn to how easily they fit together. There is no hesitation, no awkward stares, and no stammered words between the two of them.  
  
Samson is all confidence and she is softness in his grasp.  
  
She turns her eyes on Cullen. They are dark—her irises have expanded in passion, in pleasure, in a way that he hasn’t seen since he first kissed her on the battlements months ago. There is a question on her parted lips.   
  
“Cullen—” she starts, and for a moment Cullen’s breath hitches. It’s been so long since she called him  _Cullen_. It’s been so long since he’s allowed himself to think of her as anything other than their Inquisitor.   
  
He wonders, staring at her lips, if she will say that this was a mistake. He wonders if she’ll say that she was wrong. He wonders if she’ll ask for his forgiveness and tear herself away from the monster that is Samson. Would she fold herself in to his waiting arms just as easily?   
  
“—Leave us,” she finishes.  
  
No, Cullen decides. No, she wouldn't.  
  
_“I hope it’s not too late.”_


End file.
